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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971849">Find Me</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/laxeiya/pseuds/laxeiya'>laxeiya</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pentagon (Korea Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, jinhongseok</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:48:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,465</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971849</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/laxeiya/pseuds/laxeiya</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One felt abandoned and used as a scapegoat.</p><p>The other felt like the odd man out in the care for their team of five.</p><p>Both had reasons to feel hurt.</p><p>But the person they went to for comfort was the very one they could no longer talk to.</p><p>(Set in Pentagon Maker Era)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jo Jinho | Jino &amp; Yang Hongseok, Jo Jinho | Jino/Yang Hongseok</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Find Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>Footsteps pad down the wooden floor of a dim corridor.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>Fingers ghost over a keyboard, rarely selecting a key to press.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>The footsteps slow, turning a corner into yet another hall.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>A sigh breaks through the silence, the shoulders carrying the weight of it sagging more, not less.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>The echo in the hall softens, fades, then cease.</p><p>A human shadow stands tall near a closed door, a sway away from overlapping the shielded glass and alerting the other side of the presence five feet away.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>The fingers move from their suspended state and reach upwards, pushing back soft brown locks tipped with perspiration.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>A chest rises and falls rhythmically. Shakily.</p><p>The shadow trembles, ever so slightly, but never, never tips too far to the left. To the shielded glass.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>Hands bury deep to the scalp, twisting in the locks until nails meet skin.</p><p>Teeth peek out and trap the bottom lip.</p><p>A head shakes.</p><p>This isn’t going to work.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>So close, yet so far.</p><p>Eyes sting. Heart races.</p><p>It’s getting harder to breathe.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>The desk is shoved. The seat rolls away.</p><p>Armrests acquaint with damp hands, but is rejected with a push.</p><p>Heels meet the wooden floor. Too soft for a whisper.</p><p>But he needs to breathe. The air is too heavy to stay.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>An Adam’s apple bobs. A shaky hand reaches out.</p><p>The shadow crosses the threshold.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>Fingers halt, a brush away from the doorknob. A silver silhouette sways behind the off-white shield of glass.</p><p>His heart thuds low in a single pulse.</p><p>It’s not…</p><p>But he knows it is.</p><p>And suddenly, he wonders what the hell is wrong with him.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>Knuckles freeze just before the glass. A small silhouette blocks the light illuminating the shield.</p><p>Too soon. Too abrupt.</p><p>This isn’t the plan.</p><p>But what was the plan?</p><p>He doesn’t know. He can’t remember.</p><p>For three days, all he could think about was the bashful yet cheeky smile that always managed to melt the tension he felt…the touch reserved only for those most fond of. Most cared about…the eyes of one having never taken anything or anyone—or him—for granted.</p><p>The one—the biggest skeptic in their team of ten—who didn’t laugh, question, or even show a speck of doubt at the claim of being together until the grave.</p><p>He missed that bond. That comfort. That reassurance. More than he thought he should in just three days.</p><p>But then again, this wasn’t a normal situation. Far from it.</p><p>Trying to ‘survive’ in order to stay with his boys was just the icing on the cake.</p><p>It scared him, honestly.</p><p>But not being with <em>him</em> in the midst of this mental game and uncertain future was even scarier.</p><p>So he came here.</p><p>But now…just about face-to-face, the thoughts stop.</p><p>The longing screams.</p><p>But the fear and hurt scream louder.</p><p>Will he be ignored again? Silenced and pushed away?</p><p>Will tired eyes and a distant frown be the only things given to him, just as they have been these last three days?</p><p>The air grows thicker. The silhouette in front of him blurs, twisting and swirling in a liquid dance.</p><p>All he wants to do is run.</p><p>So, he does.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>He already knew.</p><p>The moment the silhouette froze, he knew what it was going to do.</p><p>Fingers grip the doorknob, tighter than they should.</p><p>A heart bangs against the cage trapping it, until every pump of blood becomes painful.</p><p>Every part of him screams to rip the door open—</p><p>But the door opens gently. Just a crack.</p><p>There’s a pause, then slowly, the door slides to allow the monitor’s light to pool into the corridor—</p><p>And capture the golden-skin of a retreating figure.</p><p>His heart pushes him to call out, reach out—</p><p>But a soft, composed voice is what slips through his lips.</p><p>“Hongseok-ah.”</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>He stops without a thought. He always stops, for anyone and anything, but especially for <em>him</em>.</p><p>But he doesn’t turn around.</p><p>No, he can’t. Not yet.</p><p>That frown…those eyes…he can’t see them just yet.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>The blood runs hot. From his chest to his fingertips and all the way down to his toes.</p><p>It threatens to burn him alive unless he cries, admits he was in the wrong, promises to never do such a childish thing again—</p><p>But, “Let’s clear this up” is what comes out instead.</p><p>A tone of finality, not a request. As if whatever issues exist between them is magically gone now that he says so.</p><p>‘Let’s not talk. Let’s just move on like nothing happened,’ is what it really means. Nothing new. It’s similar to their past, albeit rare and less stressful, ‘quarrels.’</p><p>In fact, most of the time, words aren’t even needed. A silent acknowledgement of each side’s perspective, a gentle gaze coated in forgiveness, and a warm embrace of apology was all that was required to go forward and not repeat the same mistakes in the future.</p><p>They just worked that well.</p><p>But now…the broad shoulders in front of him drop. The head layered in dark chocolate hair shakes. The golden figure trembles as a slow, painfully controlled sigh leaves its body.</p><p>And suddenly, he’s blinking away his own tears.</p><p>He messed up.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>He should nod. He should leap at the chance at putting things behind them.</p><p>He should do what he always had.</p><p>But he doesn’t move. He can’t move.</p><p>His heart races, but skips. His eyes burn in unshed tears. His mouth curves upwards and downwards.</p><p>A weight lifts from his shoulders, yet a stone weighs down his heart.</p><p>He can’t look his hyung in the eyes and smile without that bit of hurt gnawing at his insides.</p><p>But…he is also tired.</p><p>He wants to go back to normal. Wants to be with his hyung again. To laugh and smile. To have late-night discussions about their concerns, future, or the funniest thing that happened earlier in the day.</p><p>To feel that silent pillar of tenderness and support that goes beyond just a simple friendship.</p><p>…</p><p>And so, with a dull thud in his chest, “How could you do that to me, hyung?” is what he says.</p><p>However, the mildly indignant whine he was going for fails him. Instead, his voice is low, uneven, and cracks with emotion.</p><p>The tears fall.</p><p>He messed up.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>Before a word was uttered, he knew.</p><p>Before three words were formed, the distance between them had already cut in half.</p><p>Before the sentence was complete, his arms were circling.</p><p>So, when the tall, muscular, yet so fragile male jumps at the sudden contact, shorter, squishier, yet stronger arms are already there to console and mend the wound in both their hearts.</p><p>“I’m sorry.”</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>Tears stream down his cheeks and escape to the wooden floor.</p><p>But a different set of tears refuse to let go and run away. They cling to the back of his shirt, stretching on all sides to envelop as much of the golden man as they can.</p><p>His shirt sticks to his back.</p><p>It’s cold. It’s uncomfortable.</p><p>But he reaches up and squeezes the hands clasped around his waist.</p><p>It’s warm. It’s comfortable.</p><p>He cries harder.</p><p>He’s pulled closer. His back absorbs more tears.</p><p>It’s cold, but he doesn’t care.</p><p>It’s uncomfortable, but he doesn’t care.</p><p>He leans into it.</p><p>“I’m sorry, too.”</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>He hates this.</p><p>He hates this side of himself. Hates showing such emotion. Because once it starts, it doesn’t stop. Like a loose string on fabric, or a tiny crack in a dam.</p><p>Not saying anything is easier. Implying, leaving things to the imagination, is safer.</p><p>So long as it’s true, genuine, and not simply brushing away a problem, it’s okay.</p><p>But…seeing <em>him</em> in this state was not even a consideration. Especially when he’s the cause of it.</p><p>Facing the issue at all is difficult. Showing vulnerability is dangerous.</p><p>But clearing the air, for real, means having <em>him</em> again.</p><p>And he’ll put himself in a thousand uncomfortable, difficult, vulnerable situations, if it means breathing again.</p><p>
  <em>Tick, tock…</em>
</p><p>He turns around in <em>his</em> arms.</p><p>Envelops <em>his</em> entire body with long arms.</p><p>Bends down until he can tuck his head and return the cold, uncomfortable, wet sensation on <em>his</em> shoulder.</p><p>And he doesn’t want to go. Doesn’t want to run away.</p><p>“I missed you, hyung.”</p><p>He’s squeezed tighter. He’s pulled closer. His chest dampens just a little.</p><p>And somehow, he knew.</p><p>He knew he was the only one allowed to see this side.</p><p>“I missed you, too.”</p><p>It’s warm. It’s nice.</p><p>It’s overwhelming.</p><p>But he can breathe.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is my first time writing in this style. It played out well in my head, but on paper, I'm not entirely sure... Could be my inner critic or not, though I did try to keep perspectives clear with the 'tick, tock...' and italicized pronouns...</p><p>In any case, this is my first PTG work ever and it's a slightly angst-y piece, aya... But couldn't get the whole 'Find Me' section of Pentagon Maker out my head, so here we are.</p><p>This fic can either be platonic, friends-to-lovers, romantic, or even the beginning of something special. It's whatever you like. :P</p><p>Any and all feedback (whether a simple heart emoji or constructive criticism) is welcomed, but either way, I hope you guys enjoyed. &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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